


Messages

by cornelius



Series: Rexford Chronicles [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 20:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8767549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornelius/pseuds/cornelius
Summary: Under King Michael's reign, Rexford is a city divided between the rich and everyone else, where magic is both a sought-after commodity and everyday part of life. But something dark is growing in the city and not even Rexford's great fabled walls can't defend against it.A strange message arrives, but what does its sender want from Dean?





	1. Chapter 1

“Bobby’s sending us some new spells for trapping and getting rid of poltergeists,” Sam said, reading from a letter over breakfast, “Says he wasn’t happy with the last set, so these should work better.”

Dean reached for the stack of spells and thumbed through them. Sam might have a fancy degree and the backing of the Men of Letters, but no one knew Bobby’s code better than Dean. 

“I’ll decode them tonight,” Dean said, “But I told Bobby not to contact us here. We don’t want anyone to connect Lord Bonham to him.”

“He sent it through Jody.”

Dean grumbled and cut up his pancake with the side of his fork. “That’s not much better.” If these aliases were compromised, Dean didn’t want to get any of their friends involved. 

“Anything else?” Dean said, trying not to sound too eager. 

Sam set down his stack of letters and picked up the newspaper. “Nothing from your royal boyfriend.”

“He’s not my—”

The doorbell chimed. Dean paused and looked at Sam. Sam’s face mirrored Dean’s own confused expression—people usually didn’t pop in on them during breakfast.

Sam put down his paper and pulled a long, thin knife out of his boot. He hid the knife behind his back as he walked over to the door and answered it.

“Who’s at the door?” Charlie asked, and Dean jumped. She pushed aside a place setting, rattling the fine china and scrunching up the tablecloth, to drop her armful of books on the table. She craned her neck to try to get a glimpse at the door and their morning caller.

Sam wasn’t stabbing anyone, so that was probably a good sign. Dean speared a large chunk of pancake with his fork and shoveled the whole piece into his mouth.

“You expectin’ anyone?” Dean asked Charlie around a mouthful of food.

“Gross, Dean,” she said, sitting down in a chair and propping her legs up on Sam’s vacated seat. 

She shot Dean a mischievous look. “And no. My visitors only come at night.”

Dean laughed, choking on his food. He took a big gulp of Sam’s coffee and grimaced at the lack of sugar. He dropped in two sugar cubes and finished off the cup.

Sam walked back into the room and snatched the empty cup out of Dean’s hands. He looked at it forlornly. “You couldn’t get your own cup?”

Dean coughed again. “It was an emergency.”

“So who was at the door?” Charlie asked, leaning on the table.

Sam held up a letter. “A courier. They brought this.” 

Dean took the letter out of Sam’s hands and turned it over. It had no address and both the postage stamp and the wax seal were the type you’d find at any post office. 

“The courier tell you who it’s from?” Dean asked as he lifted one corner gently, looking for hidden spells or identifying marks.

Sam shook his head so Dean shrugged and broke the wax seal. Dean frowned as he read the message:

_nmtlxptbdmkaexoluagcxdngfvonafagvtkcxzbezvmztyaauknhkxirsmjplorrvbshdqshimevndeafblvexojvli_

“What language is this?” Dean asked.

“Give it to me,” Charlie said, yanking the message out of Dean’s hands. She scanned it quickly before pronouncing, “It’s a cypher. And not a simple substitution one. It looks like it needs a keyword—any guesses?”

Dean and Sam both shrugged. Without knowing the sender, they could only guess at a keyword. 

Charlie held up the paper to one of the overhead lights, looking for a watermark or hidden clue. The paper slowly darkened in the corners, brown tendrils spreading out from where she held it between her thumb and forefinger. 

_It looked like something ..._

Dean quickly turned to Sam. “Pass me a candle.”

Sam picked up a candle, but held it just out of Dean’s reach. “Dean we don’t want to _burn_ it!”

“I’m not _burning_ it,” Dean said as he snatched the candle from Sam and lit it with a match. “Invisible ink usually needs heat.” 

Dean passed the letter back and forth just above the flame, the paper warming in his hands. On his fifth pass, the paper began to darken in the bottom right corner. A sigil appeared, complete except for one small line.

“Sam, get me some invisible ink,” Dean said as he put the message on the table, the sigil fading as the paper began to cool. Sam rummaged around in his writing desk and found their bottle of invisible ink. Sam handed over a clean glass pen and the bottle, and Dean hoped their mysterious message sender had used the same stuff. Different inks in the same spell made for volatile magic.

Dean dipped the pen in the ink bottle and quickly drew the final line of the sigil. Dean passed the message over the flame again, and the newly complete sigil darkened again under the heat. This time, it faded into the paper and words, heavy downstrokes in black ink, replaced it.

_RIGHTMAN_

“Right man?” Sam asked and Dean smirked.

“This is from Cas,” Dean said, “You know how I was telling you about his crazy fancy door? Yeah, it has the whole freaking Righteous Man myth on it.”

Charlie yanked the message out of Dean’s hands for the second time. “Be right back.”

She left the room and came back with one of her notebooks. She flipped through the book as she walked until she found what she was looking for—a chart with twenty-six alphabets, each offset by one position. 

She sat down with the chart, the message and a clean sheet of paper, and a few minutes later produced a decoded message:

_We need to meet. Lloyd’s Tavern. Tonight at eleven. Bring Sam and Charlie. Be discreet. Make sure you’re not followed. C._

Dean picked up the decoded message and peered at the paper. “Where the fuck is Lloyd’s Tavern?”

%%% 

Dean peered over Charlie’s shoulder at the map she carried as they moved down a crooked allyway. She carried a lantern lit by magic, but it didn’t do much to illuminate the night.

Old Town Rexford was _dark_. The narrow streets crowded out the light of the full moon, and the ancient tenements cast long shadows. The only lights were flickering firelight, thrown out into the streets when a door to an inn or bar briefly opened.

Getting from the The Falls to Old Town had been no easy feat—they’d taken the trolley up to High Street, crossed the river via the New Queen’s Bridge (which was actually one of the oldest bridges in Rexford), caught a taxi that would take them from the affluent river-side neighborhood to the very edge of Old Town, and then hoofed it from there. Dean needed to have a conversation with Cas about appropriate meeting places. Somewhere centrally located with a friendly proprietor—like the Roadhouse. Not this _Lloyd_ ’s hole-in-the-wall, where Dean would be walking in blind, without knowing the layout or the clientele. 

Charlie stopped and pointed to a building only a few doors down, and Dean could just make out the _Lloyd’s Tavern_ sign. The burned carcases of old torches slumped in their iron supports around the sign, their last embers barely giving off any light at all.

Dean’s first thought was that he could easily set the tavern owner up with some of the new magic lights so popular in the rest of the town right now. He knew a guy who, well, _acquired_ them from some of Rexford’s more affluent citizens and hawked them for cheap. Dean could set himself up with a nice commission without even forcing the tavern to invest much in the process. 

That dream vanished as soon as it came. As they walked up to the tavern, it seemed that whoever was in charge wasn’t particularly interested in even basic upkeep. Like its neighbors, _Lloyd’s_ was a ramshackle wooden structure, the roof leaning heavily on drafty, crooked walls. One corner of the building was rotted from some previous water damage, though no one had bothered to replace the moldy and broken siding.

Sam stepped over a pile of garbage left out in the street to open the door to the tavern. The main room looked smaller than it should’ve—given the size of the building—but Dean figured that meant it had a few hidden rooms in the back. The room also looked small because every possible inch of floor space was occupied with furniture (or sweaty, drunken bodies). A large bar took up the wall to Dean’s left, and a row of booths were pushed against the back wall. The round tables filling the room were placed with barely any space between them, pushing everyone even closer together. 

Dean avoided eye contact with anyone as he walked in—last thing he wanted to do was start something before they even found Cas—but Sam and Charlie gaped openly. Dean mentally smacked himself. He should’ve had the _dos and don’ts_ talk about meeting people in weird bars with them before they left. 

A man playing cards at a near the door got caught in Charlie’s stare. He sneered at her, but Dean maneuvered her away before things escalated.

The three of them might be dressed like the bar’s patrons—in their sturdy clothing in shades of brown and faded black—but Sam and Charlie certainly didn’t act like them.

“Okay you two,” Dean whispered, as he steered them away from the tables and toward the bar, pushing through the throng of bodies, “Just be cool and stop _starin’_.”

“So this is the kind of place Dad would take you too,” Sam muttered more to himself. Sam shook his head and whispered back to Dean. “Where’s Cas—”

Dean shushed him. “Do you think people are deaf here? Now be quiet and give me a sec ...”

Dean craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of the room over the heads of the crowd. Most of the people in the room were men with the particular “don’t fuck with me” look Dean knew all too well. None of them looked out of place in _Lloyd’s_ —or like they were trying to hide their identity.

All except one—a man in a booth tucked under the stairs. 

Men who belonged in a bar like this took up space. They stretched out their limbs and leaned heavily on the tables. They didn’t tuck one foot under the other. And they certainly didn’t fidget.

Glyphs were sewn into them hem around the hood, distorting his features just enough that you didn’t want to look at him for too long. If the expensive fabric hadn’t been a dead giveaway, the way he moved would’ve been. 

“Over there,” Dean said, nodding in the direction of the man. 

“Where?” Sam asked and Charlie started to lift her arm to point. Dean rolled his eyes and pushed it back down.

“Just, follow me, okay?”

Dean forced a path from the bar to the back corner, treading a fine line between being aggressive enough to get people to move and not pissing anyone off. Charlie moved in his wake and Sam brought up the rear.

Dean made it to the booth and tapped Castiel on the shoulder. Castiel jumped and looked around, before gesturing for them to squish into the booth. Dean slipped in next to him, while Charlie and Sam took the other side, kicking Dean as he arranged his too long legs in the too small booth.

“What’s with the cloak and dagger?” Dean asked. It hurt Dean’s eyes to look too long as Castiel’s features never seemed to settle in one place. “That message wasn’t exactly _easy_ to decipher.”

Castiel didn’t reply, but put a small slip of paper on the edge of the table. He leaned over Dean and drew an Enochian symbol with a pen dripping with (what Dean hoped was) red ink. As soon as Castiel drew the final line, the magic sucked the noise of the tavern out of the booth. Every sound was gone and Dean’s ears felt stuffy, until he yawned and popped his ears.

Castiel took his hood off and glanced over his shoulder. That’s when Dean noticed that people weren’t looking at their booth. Their eyes would come their way, but slide away—not like they were intentionally trying not to look, but like there was nothing to see in the booth.

Damn, Cas had some powerful tricks up his sleeve.

“I didn’t want it to be intercepted. Michael’s watching me, and probably you now, too,” Castiel said, and the sudden noise startled Dean after the magical absolute silence.

“Lord Metatron is unhappy with your service,” Castiel continued, “He’s demanding reparations, and King Michael’s ordered me to ‘monitor’ you.”

Castiel pulled a scroll out of a pocket in his cloak and threw it on the table. Dean picked it up and scanned the document. “It’s an official royal ordinance and everything.” Dean sniffed the paper and grinned. “Smells like royal overreach.”

“That may be the case.” Castiel took the scroll back. “But there was something particularly interesting in the fine print that I wanted to discuss with you.” Castiel laid the ordinance flat in the middle of the table so everyone could see it. Castiel pointed to a paragraph and Charlie and Sam craned around to read the words.

“Ensure … the return of all … stolen properly—property!” Charlie read, “Why is that interesting? It seems pretty boilerplate to make sure we don’t steal shit.”

“It’s just a hunch I have,” Castiel started, “Lord Metatron petitioned Michael for reparations after the hunt—Michael told me as much. But when I went to the royal archives, where all petitions are stored, I couldn’t find a record of his grievance. Of course there’s nothing _illegal_ about this—”

“But if he wanted reparations,” Dean interjected, “Why wouldn’t he get the complaint in writing? To get anything done in the royal courts, don’t you need like a million documents?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, “Exactly. No record means he’s hiding something.”

“So, you think that the stolen property clause means he’s hiding the box,” Sam said, brows furrowed as he put the pieces together, “Not only does Metatron know we took the box, but he also doesn’t want there to be any record, public or private, that he had it?”

Castiel nodded.

“Also,” Charlie added, “If Metatron _knew_ he had a dangerous magical artifact just laying around in a spare bedroom, and he told Michael he wanted it back, there’s a good chance that _King effin’ Michael_ knows now too?”

The booth held its breath.

“So it’s a conspiracy,” Dean said, his voice sounding too loud in the artificial quiet.

“I—I’m not sure that’s it,” Castiel said, but his voice wavered. “But it does seem …”

“Fishy?” Dean supplied. Most of Michael’s doings smelled more than a little fishy.

Castiel frowned. “As far as I know there are no fish involved, Dean.”

“No, it’s not—I’m just saying—” Dean sputtered while Charlie and Sam grinned. 

Dean sighed, “It’s just an expression, Cas.”

“Oh.” Castiel blinked, seeming to file that away in his brain before regrouping. “Anyway, I think I have a solution to this problem.”

Castiel pulled out a black leather notebook, overflowing with loose sheets tucked in its pages. He untied the leather strap wrapped around the notebook and turned to a section almost three-quarters of the way through the book, before handing it over to Sam. 

“Replica magic?” Sam asked, his eyebrows shooting up as he read the notebook, “Why would we need that?”

“If we’re going to remove things that could be missed, I suggest making it at least look like they’re not gone. And I’m sure Michael will want me to return Lord Metatron’s music box, so I’ll need a passable copy. I was doing some reading on various methods of transfiguration and object creation. It’s not something I’ve ever been exposed to, but I think replica magic might be the way to go.”

Sam flipped through a few pages and sighed. “We may have a problem then. Charlie and I can do it, but nothing will hold up to close scrutiny. Dean on the other hand…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean said. He tried to motion to Sam to stop talking. 

“You shouldn’t feel bad about it Dean,” Sam said absently.

“I _said_ , I don’t want to talk about it.” Dean shot Sam a glare, but Sam’s eyes were still looking down at the notebook.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, “Did I bring up a sore subject?”

Dean said “No,” at the same time Sam said “Yes.”

Dean kicked Sam, and tried to send him a psychic message: _Shut up already_.

“Bobby taught us replica magic years ago. But the spell language you have to use—it has twelve noun cases and a whole system of classifiers based on shape and material. It’s not something you pick up overnight. Well, Dean gave it a try anyway.”

Dean scowled. “I had the spell right! Bobby’s stupid ink was too ... gloopy.” 

“He tried to replicate a fork,” Sam explained, “He made _something_ —which is more than I can say for a lot of people who try this magic—but it was a furry ooze ball that smelled like a dying cat.” 

Charlie giggled.

“And it materialized on top of his head,” Sam added and Charlie’s giggles turned into full belly laughs. She had to wipe tears from her eyes.

Dean didn’t understand why everyone had to pick on him all the time. He stank for _weeks_ after that. If anything, Castiel should feel _sorry_ for Dean.

Instead, Dean watched the corner of Castiel’s mouth twitch. “That’s, um—” Castiel’s voice shook with barely contained laughter, “unfortunate.”

“Anyway,” Dean said, glaring at Sam and Charlie. Charlie sobered up and at least had the decency to give him a look of contrition. “Maybe you should hit the books and figure this replica shit out.”

Charlie took the notebook out of Sam’s hands and scanned the first few pages of notes. “We can certainly give it a try,” she said with a sigh, “Though I’ll probably have to contact some of the people at the University in Stan’s Ford.”

“Just, be discreet,” Castiel said with another furtive glance over his shoulder, “Michael _cannot_ get wind of this.”

Charlie gave him a mock salute and pulled her own notebook out of a pocket on her belt. Sam looked over her shoulder as she transcribed a few things from Castiel’s notebook.

“Hey,” Dean said softly to Cas, touching him lightly on the shoulder, “Let’s let them work for a bit. You wanna …?” Dean gestured just outside the booth with his thumb.

Castiel nodded and put his hood back up. His features distorted again and Dean had to look away. Dean slid out of the booth, the roar of the tavern returning as soon as he crossed some invisible barrier surrounding the booth. 

“Meet me outside,” Dean said into Castiel’s ear—or more like yelled into his ear. Everything was too loud after the quiet of the booth.

Castiel nodded and moved unnoticed through the crowd. Dean took a different path, making sure it didn’t look like they were leaving together. If Castiel thought they were being watched, Dean was gonna make sure they didn’t have anything interesting to see.

Dean strolled out of the tavern and over the pile of garbage The air wasn’t much fresher outside, but at least it wasn’t stifling hot. And aside from the occasional night bird call or footsteps on pavement, it was quiet.

An hand shot out and grabbed Dean around the elbow. It pulled him with surprising strength through an alleyway and into an empty doorway. 

Castiel performed the same spell as the one in the tavern and all sounds of the night vanished.

“Jesus, Cas, give a guy a warning,” Dean said as Castiel pulled off his hood.

“You weren’t specific about where you wanted to meet, so I didn’t want to miss you.”

“So you thought _grabbin_ ’ me was the answer?”

Castiel shrugged. It was hard to make out Castiel’s expression in the dark, but Dean thought he could see a smile.

“So why did you want to step out?” Castiel asked.

“I just got something to say, okay?” Dean said. Dean took a few deep breaths while Castiel waited silently. 

“Look,” Dean said as he rubbed the back of his neck, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. You were right about Metatron—there was a moment when I thought for sure we were done for. But then he saw you. And … well, who knows what would’ve happened to me and Sam and Charlie if you hadn’t been there.

“I invited you on a silly, stupid whim, but you really did help, and not ‘cause you smoothed things over with the nobility.”

Dean sighed. He was glad he couldn’t make out Castiel’s expression. 

“Lettin’ people into this life is hard for me, okay? It was just me and Sam for so long.” Dean chuckled darkly. “I usually operate under the assumption that everyone’s gonna let me down.”

Castiel’s hand found Dean’s and squeezed reassuringly. “Dean…” 

Dean shook his head. “Anyway it’s not important. I just wanted to apologize for pushin’ you away, that’s all.” 

“You don’t have to apologize, Dean,” Castiel said, “I’m on your side. I’ll always be there when you need me.”

Dean’s heart stopped. That wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words. He pulled his hand back and his voice shook as he spoke. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I—”

“Let’s get back inside, Cas.” Dean cut him off. “I’m sure Sam and Charlie will need our help.”

Dean stepped out of the alcove and walked back toward the bar.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel pulled at the brim of his hat as Dean haggled over the price of vellum with a stall owner. The metallic thread caught mid morning sunlight and Castiel worried that someone might see the glyphs sewn where the brim met the crown.

Dean pulled Castiel’s arm away from the hat, neither looking at Castiel nor pausing his argument with the stall owner.

Castiel rolled his eyes and touched a piece of vellum hanging from the awning of the stall, rubbing the thin membrane between his fingers, trying to copy the movements he’d seen Dean make. It certainly _felt_ like any other piece of vellum he’d handled in his life. But he’d also thought that at the other two paper market stalls. 

Bits of Dean’s conversation wafted over to Castiel. “I can hardly expect to turn a profit when I ship this to Stan’s Ford at those prices”—oh right, they were merchants today—“And with the state of the roads, I’ll have to hire extra guards.”

She shook her head. “I can’t come down that low. I’m nearly selling to you at cost!”

“Alright Sir Townshend, time to go,” Dean said, straightening his vest—one much fancier than anything he had worn as Lord John of Bonham. “I don’t think she has what we’re looking for.” 

Dean turned his back to the woman and winked, and Castiel stared back at him, unsure what Dean wanted from him. Dean gave him another look and nudged, so Castiel turned around and started to walk away.

“Fine!” the woman shouted just before they left the shade of her awning, “You can take the two bundles for a cotton and two mullberries!”

Dean twirled back around and shook her hand. “Great, wrap ‘em up for us. Pete—” he looked at Castiel over his shoulder, “pay this fine woman.” 

Dean told Castiel to pay with a wide, boyish smile. It was the kind of smile that caught Castiel off guard and transfixed him with its easy affection. Dean was having too much fun ordering him around, and his joy was infectious. Castiel had to fight to keep a grin off his face.

The stall owner grumbled as she picked up the stacks and wrapped them in butcher’s paper, tieing off the package with twine. She calculated the price in her head and showed it to Castiel.

Castiel opened his wallet and looked at the paper money he’d shoved in there that morning—Castiel never carried currency and didn’t completely understand how the lower denominations, especially the coins, worked. He pulled out several square sheets of paper and examined them closely. The names for each bill were stamped in one corner (above Michael’s stern profile), but Dean said most people knew them by touch. 

The bill with the lowest value, the hemp, was thin and rough. It crinkled easily but it was durable, which made it ideal for the most common denomination of paper money. Castiel thought the paper felt cheap, but it was worth 256 ash coins—or as much as most laborers could expect to make in a month, according to Michael’s ledgers.

The next bill up was the mulberry, or as Dean called it, the ‘mullie.’ The mulberry paper was smooth and thick, textured and fibrous. It was the same size as the hemp but worth four times as much. The third bill, and the bill with the highest value, was the cotton. Worth four times that of a mulberry, the cotton was the sturdiest bill. It started out stiff, but softened over time with use. Castiel rubbed the smooth cotton bill between his fingers and it rustled softly. 

Castiel rifled through the few bills he’d pulled out and the saleswoman looked agog. Dean quickly pulled out the right amount of money—one cotton bill and two mulberry—and paid the woman before shoving all of Castiel’s money back in his wallet. 

“Dude,” Dean hissed, “You can’t just wave around the entire contents of your wallet here.”

The woman eyed them warily as she handed over the two bundles of vellum to Dean and a receipt to Castiel. Her eyes never met his—the glyphs sewn in his hat doing their work—always sliding away before they met his. 

Castiel wondered how he looked to her. Dean said Castiel looked like himself, but it was as if Dean’s brain couldn’t process all the parts as a single face. Castiel’d tried to look at himself in the mirror with his hat on, but it just made his head hurt.

The stall owner thanked them for their business, though Castiel doubted her sincerity, and Dean pushed them quickly out into the busy aisle.

They walked a few steps as Dean tried to wrestle the vellum into his large, flat portfolio and Castiel tried to straighten out the bills in his wallet, crumpled by Dean’s rough handling. 

He looked at them, struck by a niggling guilt. Dean had sworn up and down to pay back every ash chip Castiel spent today, but in truth, Castiel didn’t want his money. Castiel certainly didn’t need it, and it was all Castiel’s fault anyway that they’d needed to spend money in the first place.

It has been his fault that the ghost hunt had gone so wrong, even if he couldn’t say exactly _why_. It was his fault they needed vellum and ink and new pens to try out the replica magic he’d researched. It was his fault Dean’s ghost hunting business had taken a hit after Lord Metatron made it know how _unhappy_ he’d been with their service.

Castiel stopped fiddling with the money and put his wallet away. Dean buckled the last buckle on his portfolio and led Castiel down an aisle past the dying booths with their large vats of boiling colored liquid. The wind picked up and carried the foul smell over to Castiel. He wrinkled his nose at the stench.

Dean laughed and clapped Castiel on the back. “Take it all in, Cas. That’s how a _real_ paper market’s supposed to smell.”

Dean’s smile softened as he looked around. They’d made it to a small square in the middle of the market, where food carts sold finger foods and children ran with kites and paper puppets. Dean took a deep breath, eyes closing as he breathed in, like the smell triggered some memory.

How many hours had Dean spent in markets like these, haggling over the price of paper, watching expert craftsmen turn pens on a lathe, laughing as children crowded around an old woman binding a storybook with a needle and thread?

Castiel breathed in again, following Dean’s example. This time, he picked up the warm, earthy smell of wood shavings, the metallic tang of machine oil used on the lathes, and the damp scent of vegetable fiber pulp drying on racks.

It was not a cocktail of smells he was familiar with, but he could admit it wasn’t unpleasant. 

“You’re the expert,” Castiel said with a shrug, “I suppose it’s not that bad.” Dean’s face transformed into a proud smile at Castiel’s words. Castiel didn’t add that a battlefield smelled _much_ worse, anyway. Dean approved of something he’d said and he liked Dean’s approval. 

Dean steered Castiel toward a printing press demonstration just a few stalls over. Metal clinked against metal as burly men set moveable type with fingers stained black. They turned the horizontal crank and the wood creaked and groaned, forcing the paper onto the inked text. 

One pulled the paper out and held out a sample to Castiel. “Here you go, sir,” he said, “It’s the finest work in the whole Bishop Paper Market.” Castiel nodded as he took it, though he had no idea what good or bad typesetting looked like.

Just as he hadn’t known what good vellum felt like. Or known what a turned pen and nib could reasonably cost. 

Castiel was so removed from the production of things he looked at and used everyday. If he wanted a book, he’d have a page fetch it from a bookstore. If he wanted vellum, the castle librarian had it sent up to his room. If he needed a pen, he’d get one out of the box of a dozen or so excellent quality pens he’d received as gifts ages ago.

For Dean, the value was in that production. He touched _everything_ with deferential, reverent touches, his fingers caressing the paper market’s goods. He took the sample from the typesetter and held it gently in by the corners, avoiding the still-wet ink on the page.

Dean turned it to show Castiel. “Crisp letters—no bleeding,” Dean explained patiently, “And straight lines. This is good work.”

A woman on the other side of the booth had commanded the typesetter’s attention, so Dean handed it off to an apprentice to hang the paper to dry. Dean tipped the boy with two ash chips and the kid’s eyes bugged out of his head. 

Castiel smiled at the apprentice’s reaction as he ran off to show the other apprentices his two coins.

Life in the market was like nothing Castiel’d ever experienced before. He’d never seen so many people—so many _different_ people—smiling and laughing and fighting and struggling and _living_. What had Castiel been doing all these years? Is this what he’d been missing?

Dean elbowed him in the ribs, smiling like the newly-rich apprentice. “So, what’s next on the list?”

“Um,” Castiel said, squinting off into middle distance as he searched his memory for the list Sam gave them. “We bought pens and vellum. We still need blotting paper, embossing powder and iron gall ink—” Castiel ticked off a finger for each item. 

“Good,” Dean said, “We can get all that at the ink shop on Castle Road.”

Dean put a hand on the small of Castiel’s back and steered him toward the main road, between the booksellers and typesetters, each of them calling out to Dean and Castiel as they walked by. They walked a block down Bishop Avenue, the road quiet after the loud bluster of the market, before turning onto the shopping district end of Castle road.

As they strolled, Dean pulled a small object out of his pocket and toyed with it, passing it from one hand to the other. Castiel could only see it through Dean’s fingers, but it looked like a small ball made of blue rope. Dean palmed it and twisted it and tugged on the loops, as if testing it. 

Then, he turned his hand just _so_ and then the ball was gone. Castiel’s mouth dropped open. Dean turned his hands over, fingers spread wide as if to show it wasn’t hidden to an invisible audience. Then he brought his hands together and pulled it out of one palm.

Castiel grabbed Dean’s elbow and Dean jumped. “How are you doing that?” Castiel asked urgently, “What spell are you using?”

Dean put a hand over his heart, startled by Castiel’s sudden question. “What spell … ? Oh the trick?”—Dean vanished the ball again—“It’s not a spell”—and brought it back in his other hand.

Castiel eyed him warily. He didn’t know what kind of dark, terrible magic Dean was playing with, but making things appear and disappear was not something one did so flippantly. It took _real_ power and careful planning. Otherwise, things didn’t always disappear completely, or come back as they should.

Dean laughed. “Trust me—it’s not magic. It’s sleight of hand. Look—” Dean demonstrated the trick again, vanishing and reappearing the rope ball a third time right before Castiel’s eyes. Dean moved slowly through each gesture, showing Castiel where he’d been deceived.

“Let me try,” Castiel said. He held out his hand for the rope ball. 

“Hold on,” Dean said, holding the charm just out of Castiel’s reach, “You gotta start smaller.” He fished for a ash coin out of his coin purse and dropped it in Castiel’s hand. “Start with that.”

Castiel tried the trick, copying Dean’s movements the best he could—“Nope. I saw you move it”—and frowned. Sure he didn’t have the _finesse_ of Dean’s gestures, but he didn’t know where he’d gone wrong.

“It takes practice,” Dean said, “Try again.”

Castiel repeated the trick again. And then again after that. Dean made adjustments to Castiel’s hands as he went until Castiel’s fingers were sore from the unfamiliar movement. 

Castiel handed the coin back to Dean. “Keep it,” Dean said, wrapping Castiel’s fingers around the coin, “Keep practicing with it.”

Castiel pocketed the coin as Dean pointed to a shop across the street with a folding door instead of a front wall.

“Oh hey,” Dean said, holding up the blue ball, “that’s the shop I got this charm from.” 

Castiel peered at the blue ball. A charm? He’d never seen a charm like that.

He turned and looked over at the shop. A woman sat on the floor in the middle of the shop, embroidering a small piece of golden leather with colorful thread. She started as Castiel looked at her, the sudden movement causing the bells woven in her hair to jingle warningly. She glared at Castiel, eyes narrowed dangerously. 

Castiel quickly looked over his shoulder. Was there someone behind him? No, she was looking directly at him.

“You wanna go take a look?” Dean asked, oblivious to the odd look Castiel was getting. Castiel nodded slowly, and took a step toward the shop. As soon as she saw them move, the woman stood up, dropping the charm she was working on and slid the shop door shut.

“Huh, weird,” Dean said. He shrugged and pivoted on one foot to keep walking down the street.

Castiel followed him, but he could still see her eyes, peering through a window in the door at him. She looked aggressive, but also a little afraid. Castiel shivered. What had he done to scare her so? How could she _see_ him?

They further away they got, the more intense the feeling of her eyes on his back became, his skin prickling on his neck. Castiel didn’t know how long they walked, but Dean stopped them suddenly. Or maybe it only felt sudden to Castiel.

Dean turned Castiel around by the shoulders.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, “You just walked by the store. Didn’t you hear me?”

Castiel _hadn’t_ heard him and Dean looked worried. Castiel couldn’t stop thinking about the strange actions of the woman in the shop. What did she know that he didn’t?

Castiel shook his head. “Sorry. My mind was elsewhere.” He forced on a smile, and that seemed to placate Dean. 

“It’s okay, man. Let’s get the rest of the stuff on the list and go back to your place.” Dean waggled his eyebrows and Castiel blushed.

“Aren’t Sam and Charlie expecting us?” Castiel said, lowering his voice. Not that it would matter if anyone heard them, but he didn’t want to blow their cover.

Dean smiled. “Not for a few more hours.”

%%% 

Dean’s arms were still caught in the straps of his shopping bags when Castiel pushed him against the door to his chambers and kissed him. 

“Cas,” Dean gasped, “I gotta—” Dean trailed off as Castiel sucked on Dean’s jaw. One of his strong, lithe hands cupped Dean’s face and the other gripped his shoulder tight. 

Dean could hardly think. It felt _so_ good. It had been too damn long since the last time they’d kissed—really kissed—and it felt _so_ _good_.

Castiel’s hand trailed down Dean’s arm and found the hemp tote bag still clutched in Dean’s hand. Castiel peeled Dean’s fingers open with one hand while the other opened Dean’s shirt collar. He kissed and sucked on every newly revealed inch of flesh and Dean nearly dropped the tote bag full of delicate pens and glass bottles. 

Castiel took the bag from Dean’s hand and gently set it on the floor. He also helped Dean untangle himself from the straps of his satchel and portfolio still wrapped around Dean’s chest.

Castiel grabbed Dean as soon as his things were on the floor and kissed him again. He gripped Dean’s shoulders, and Dean’s hands came up to wrap around Castiel’s middle, just under his shoulder blades. Castiel felt so warm and he kissed Dean in such a soft and unhurried way.

Dean broke the kiss and gently pushed Castiel toward the bedroom, only stopping when they bumped into Castiel’s suit of armor. 

The suit clanged loudly, metal against metal, and Dean jumped away from Castiel. He dropped his head in his hand and shook his head while Castiel laughed. Castiel took Dean’s other hand and pulled him into the bedroom. 

Castiel shut the bedroom door more out of habit than privacy before starting back up again on Dean’s clothes. Castiel pushed off Dean’s jacket—the hardy woolen one that was Lord Bonham’s favorite—sliding his hands down Dean’s arms. Dean shivered as the touch raised goosebumps on his arms. Dean’s vest and shirt came off next and then the front buttons of Dean’s trousers were undone.

Castiel kissed Dean again as he pushed Dean toward the bed. Dean sat as soon as he felt the bed hit the backs of his knees, but Castiel kept pushing. Dean squirmed up the bed ungracefully on his elbows, blushing as his hard cock wobbled back and forth with the movement. But he didn’t have long to feel embarrassed because then Castiel was straddling him, pants gone and cock inches from his own.

Castiel stroked himself slowly, and Dean nearly stopped breathing. He stopped long enough to shrug out of his jacket and waistcoat and shirt, before he resumed his teasing touches. 

Castiel’s other hand came down to squeeze his balls and Castiel threw his head back.

“Come on, you tease,” Dean said and he grabbed at Castiel’s thigh.

Castiel chuckled. “I wondered how long you could last.”

Dean stuck out his tongue at Castiel, but then his mouth fell open in a groan as Castiel pressed their hips together. Castiel wrapped a hand around both of them—when had Cas gotten the lube out?—and stroked them both with firm, fast movements.

Castiel rested his forehead on Dean’s left shoulder, and every small whine and grunt and moan he made echoed in Dean’s ear. Dean didn’t last much longer, and Castiel followed him shortly after.

They laid together on the bed too long before Dean finally got up to get a towel from the bathroom. He rubbed himself off before throwing the towel at Castiel.

“I need to get back to Sam and Charlie,” Dean said as he reached under a chair for his discarded shirt. 

“I thought you said you had time,” Castiel said, still naked on the bed. 

“That was a few hours ago,” Dean said once he’d pulled his shirt on. 

He tucked his shirt into his pants, buttoning them as he looked out the window. He could just barely make out Castle Road from Castiel’s bedroom window, but he picked out the scaffolding in front of an unmistakeable home.

“So it looks like Metatron’s getting a whole new house.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, and rolled onto his belly. His bare feet kicked at nothing over the edge of the bed. “He claimed there was structural damage.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s just an excuse to get work done. Especially since his was the only house on the street without any modern upgrades.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Castiel said, sniffing, “And so is my bank account.”

“Aww, bleeding you dry?” Dean asked and Castiel frowned. 

“It’s not a financial hardship,” Castiel started, “It’s just …”

“Annoying?” Dean offered.

“Very.”

Dean chuckled and leaned over to place a kiss on the corner of Castiel’s frown. Castiel grabbed him and pulled him down onto the bed and kissed him again, a tempting reminder of what Dean could have if he didn’t leave.

“Castiel!” A voice called from the main room. Dean and Castiel jumped apart, and Castiel dove for his pants. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Castiel said, “That’s Michael.”

Dean could barely make out the words. It sounded like Castiel had said _Michael._ “Your brother?” 

Castiel glared at him as he stood up and scrambled into his pants. “No, it’s the other Michael—the patron saint of dumb questions.” Castiel pointed to crumped shirt in the corner. “Hand me my shirt.”

Dean buttoned his vest and mumbled. “You don’t have to be such a—”

The bedroom door opened and Dean shut his mouth. 

“Castiel! There you are!” Michael turned to look at Dean and the hair stood up on Dean’s neck. He felt pinned to the spot by that all too knowing look. “And you must be Lord Bonham, such a pleasure to meet you at last. I hear your _ghost hunting_ business is doing … well.”

“Your Majesty,” Dean said, bowing appropriately low, “We thank you, though my steward and I don’t think of it as a business so much as a service. We only charge a fee to cover our, at times, considerable expenses. Supplies for warding off the unhappy dead don’t come cheap.”

Michael laughed politely, his smile pinched. “You know, come to think of it, I am glad that I ran into you today. You see, Lord Metatron claims that a trinket of his went missing after you got rid of his poltergeist. It wouldn’t’ve fallen into your things, by chance?”

Dean clenched his teeth. “I don’t remember seeing anything that didn’t belong to us in our supplies, but I can double check, of course. Anything for your majesty.”

“It would be most appreciated. He claims that it has _sentimental_ value.”

Michael stared and Dean, waiting for some response, but Dean just stared back.

Michael cleared his throat. “Now I must speak to my brother. If you don’t mind …”

“I was just leaving,” Dean said, bowing again. When he stood up, he looked at Castiel, but Castiel’s eyes were fixed on Michael. There was an anger and a coldness in Castiel’s eyes that Dean wasn’t used to, and it sent a shiver of fear down his spine.

He waved to Castiel and Castiel gave him a quick glance. “Goodbye … John.”

“See ya Cas.”

Dean slipped out of Castiel’s bedroom while the two brothers watched him go. He put on his shoes and picked up his shopping bags, before exiting through the intricate chamber doors.

“Okay, what the hell is the deal with that music box?” Dean looked back at the doors and ran a hand over one carved wing.

“Ow,” he said, jerking his hand back from the door. Small drops of blood welled around the a fine line on his thumb, which he instinctively popped in his mouth.

 _Dean_ …

Dean turned around quickly, looking for the source of the voice. The hall was empty, but Dean strained to listen for the sound of footsteps over the sudden ringing in his ears.

He pulled his thumb out of his mouth and the cut was gone. 

Dean shook his head. He must’ve imagined it—the cut, the voice. He grabbed his things and quickly walked toward the side stairway, anxious to leave the palace.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to messier51 for always having the best suggestions!


End file.
